


Might as well End it

by bimmykimmy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, Zombies, the feck?, they spell marco's last name weird on ao3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:34:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bimmykimmy/pseuds/bimmykimmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean and Marco are zombies, and it's gettin' kinda old</p>
            </blockquote>





	Might as well End it

**Author's Note:**

> really short--from a prompt on tumblr

"I’d say you’re a heartless douche, but, well, you literally have no heart. The point’s kinda moot."

Jean barely got the words out as he shifted his jaw back into place. The fall from the building had really jumbled his bits, but nothing a bit of tweaking couldn’t fix. “Damn those survey teams. Their leader—what’s his name—Jaeger? Yeah, he’s sure a ray of sunshine huh?”

"Jean, It wasn’t exactly my  _plan_  to have us cornered on the rooftop. And what's wrong with not having a heart? I'm perfect," he reached his hand inside the gaping hole in his chest and looked back up towards the hunters who were still scrambling about on the rooftop. "Anyways, I told you to lie low. But instead, you see the nearest human and try to bite her shoulder off. What did you expect to happen?” He pulled his hand out of his chest and stood up slowly, bits of his decaying skin crumbling off in the process. Jean shrugged and turned to look down the alleyway. Corpses were spread about; some getting up to move, others not so lucky. 

If you could call  _this_  lucky.

467, no 468, days and counting. To be honest, Jean had all but lost count. It was a blur by now. The helplessness, the struggle, the complete exhaustion.

He had emptied his clip into the walker, but it kept coming. Damn his lousy shot. He remembered what it was like, waking up only to see his insides…well…not inside anymore. And he’d be lying to say that bite on the thigh hadn’t been a bit of a relief. Well, at the time it had been. Now, all he really wanted to do was die.

But he couldn’t do that. Not when  _he_ …

"Jean, um, you’ve got something on your…"

"What?" Jean looked over his shoulder at Marco who pointed at his back. He looked down and saw a rather large sliver of wood jutting out of his muscle. He scoffed, "son of a—" He turned and twisted and reached for it, but it was no use. It was the exact spot he couldn’t reach when he had an itch to scratch when he was alive.

Marco rolled his eyes and laughed; it was dry and tired, but a laugh nonetheless. “Here,” he walked over to Jean and steadied him. In one easy pull, he yanked the piece out of Jean’s back. A dark, thick liquid oozed out of the wound.

"Ah, shit," Jean grumbled, "now I’ve got weird goop leaking out of me. What next, an eye popping out?"

Marco’s eyes grew vacant, and his expression dulled (well, duller than it would have been…whatever, they’re very lively zombies, okay?). He pressed his hand against the wound. The black liquid poured over his skin, staining it a deep red.

"Look at us," he mumbled, "we’re damaged and broken. They hate us up there. And  **them** …” he gestured to the walking corpses; all moaning and dragging their feet. “They aren’t like us.” Jean turned around to face him; stepping in closer and taking Marco’s hand in his. He stared down at them; filthy, gory, and dead. When had he grown so immune to it?

Marco squeezed Jean’s hand, and looked him in the eyes, “Jean, why aren’t they like us? Why aren’t we like  _them_?!”

"Hell if I know," Jean said with a forced smile. If Marco lost it now, there was no telling what would happen. In honesty, Jean had no idea what to think anymore. Walking corpses, hunting squads, the list went on. They had both gotten bit, but were still themselves. Neither of them knew why, or how. The longer they looked for an answer, the harder it was to bare. He had to stay strong; for both their sakes.

Jean leaned in and tilted his head up, bringing his dry, cracked lips to Marco’s. Even now, after many many days of roaming, they still felt soft—almost alive. As Jean pulled away from the kiss a loud yell from above startled them.

"The two are still down there! Quick, Armin get the rifle!"

Jean and Marco looked up at Eren Jaeger who peered at them over the edge. Neither of them even twitched as the hunter brought the loaded rifle over the edge. Their heads fell back down and their eyes met. An unwavering, silent agreement came upon them. Marco bit his lip, eyebrows furrowed, and nodded. Jean pressed his own lips into a thin line; knowing full well that if his tear ducts still worked, he’d cry.

Marco leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Jean; holding tightly as they brought their heads as close together as possible.

"Mikasa, get your rifle too. I’ve got a clear headshot. These walkers are dumb as shit—standing out in the open!"

Jean closed his eyes; not fearing death, but not really wanting to welcome it. He did still feel human after all—despite his impossible wounds and current biology. He felt Marco hold him tighter.

"Pray this works," 

"You know I don’t pray."

A laugh and a pause, “I know.”


End file.
